DoorDash Driver Delivering Food Caught Wife In Bed With Neighbor – K!LLED Them Both…| HO”

Chanel worked as an administrator at a dental clinic on the other side of town. Her day was no easier. Eight hours at the front desk, smiling at patients, answering phones, and filling out endless forms. But her salary was stable and predictable, unlike Mike’s earnings, which fluctuated depending on the number of orders and the generosity of customers.

When Mike climbed the narrow staircase and opened the door to the apartment, he was greeted by a silence that was worse than any scream.

Chanel was sitting on the sofa in the living room, buried in her phone. She didn’t even look up when he entered. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, her face expressing both fatigue and irritation.

“Hi,” Mike said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door.

“Hi,” Chanel replied without looking up from her screen.

Mike went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out the leftovers from last night’s dinner. He heated the food in the microwave and sat down at the small kitchen table.

Chanel never came out to join him.

They used to have dinner together, tell each other about their day, and laugh about little things. Now every evening was like the one before. Cold silence and unspoken reproaches.

When Mike finished eating, he went into the living room. Chanel was still sitting on the couch, but now she was watching some reality show on TV.

“How was your day?” he asked, sitting down in the chair opposite her.

“Fine,” she replied curtly. “How was yours?”

“Tired. Lots of orders today.”

Chanel finally looked at him. There was no warmth in her eyes.

“And how much did you earn for all those orders?”

Mike felt something tighten inside. He knew where this conversation was going.

“One twenty‑three.”

Chanel shook her head and turned away.

“Twelve hours of work for $120, Mike. That’s ridiculous. We’ll never be able to afford anything decent. I can’t even buy myself decent clothes because every dollar goes to pay for the apartment and bills.”

“I’m trying. I’m really trying. It’s just not the season right now. There are fewer orders.”

“You always try,” Chanel interrupted, anger creeping into her voice. “But your efforts don’t change anything. We’ve been living here for four years, Mike. Four years. And we’re still renting this crappy apartment. Still can’t afford a vacation. I still ride the bus because I don’t have a car.”

Mike clenched his fists. He wanted to say something to justify himself, to explain, but the words stuck in his throat because deep down he knew she was right. He worked himself to exhaustion, but their life wasn’t getting any better.

The doorbell rang.

Chanel got up from the sofa and went to answer it.

Aisha, her younger sister, was standing on the doorstep. Aisha was three years younger, but she looked more confident and successful. She was wearing a stylish coat, carrying an expensive handbag, and wearing a bracelet on her wrist that was clearly worth a lot of money.

She worked as a manager in a large call center and earned a decent salary.

“Hi, sis.” Aisha hugged Chanel and walked into the apartment. Seeing Mike, she nodded. “Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Aisha,” he replied curtly.

Mike knew Aisha didn’t like him. She never said so directly, but her looks, her tone of voice, her short phrases— all of this made it clear that she considered him unworthy of her sister.

The women went into the kitchen, and Mike heard them start talking in hushed voices.

He pretended to be absorbed in the television, but in fact, he was listening to every word.

“How are you?” Aisha asked, and there was genuine concern in her voice.

“Same as usual,” Chanel sighed. “I’m tired, Aisha. I’m so tired of all this.”

“Is he still delivering food?”

“Yeah. He worked 12 hours today and made $120. That’s nothing. I work less and earn more.”

“Look, I don’t want to meddle, but you need to think seriously about your future. You’re 31, Chanel. Do you want to live like this when you’re 40? Do you want your children, if you ever have any, to grow up in an apartment like this?”

Mike felt his face flush. Shame, anger, and resentment mingled inside him into a heavy lump.

“I don’t know what to do,” Chanel said quietly. “I talk to him, but nothing changes.”

“Then maybe it’s time to consider other options. Find someone who can provide for you. Or at least give him an ultimatum. Tell him to find a normal job or you’re leaving.”

Mike couldn’t take it anymore. He got up and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Aisha’s muffled laughter came from the kitchen, and it hurt even more than her words.

The next day, after another shift, Mike met his neighbor, Colin Cuomo, at the entrance.

Colin was a few years older, a strong man with broad shoulders and the calloused hands of a mechanic. He worked in a factory, and although his job wasn’t easy either, it was stable and paid decent money.

“Hey, Mike.” Colin leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “How’s it going?”

“So‑so.” Mike stopped beside him, grateful to have someone to talk to. “Not great, to be honest. Problems with Chanel.”

Mike nodded. Colin was the only person he could talk to openly.

“She thinks I’m a loser, and she’s probably right. I work my ass off, but I still don’t have any money. Her sister came over yesterday, and I heard them talking about me in the kitchen. Aisha said outright that Chanel should find someone who can provide for her.”

Colin exhaled smoke and looked at Mike with sympathy.

“It’s tough, bro. I get it. But, you know, financial stability is really important to women. That doesn’t mean they’re mercenary or bad. They just want to feel secure, to know they can build a future. My wife worries about money sometimes, too. Even though I make good money, it’s normal.”

“But I’m trying.” Mike felt his voice tremble. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“I know.” Colin put his hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should think about another job, something more stable.”

“I’ve thought about it, but who would hire me? I have no education, no skills. All I know how to do is drive a car and deliver food.”

“Don’t say that. You have experience working with people. You’re responsible, punctual. That’s valuable, too. Try looking for something in a warehouse, in delivery, but at a large company where you get a salary and benefits.”

Mike wanted to believe those words, but inside he was gnawed by the certainty that nothing would change.

He thanked Colin and went up to his place, but things were even worse at work.

Tyrone Burkholder, the owner of a small delivery service for which Mike sometimes worked on the side from DoorDash, was a harsh and rude man. He ruled his couriers with an iron fist, yelled at them for the slightest mistakes, and never missed an opportunity to humiliate them.

That day, Mike was five minutes late because of traffic.

Tyrone met him at the office, a small, dirty room with peeling walls.

“You’re late, you piece of trash.” Tyrone sat at his desk, staring at Mike with a heavy gaze. Several other couriers stood around, waiting for their orders.

“I’m sorry, there was traffic.”

“I don’t care about your traffic,” Tyrone barked. “Do you think customers care about your excuses? They pay for fast delivery and you’re telling me about traffic.”

“I was only five minutes late.”

“Shut up.” Tyrone stood up and moved closer. He was taller and broader than Mike and his presence was intimidating. “Do you know how many people like you are willing to work for pennies? Hundreds. I can kick you out of here right now and find a replacement in an hour. So don’t be a smartass. Do your job or get out of here.”

The other couriers stood with their eyes downcast. No one spoke up for him.

Mike gritted his teeth and nodded. He couldn’t afford to lose this job, no matter how humiliating it was.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

“That’s better. Now take your orders and get out of here.”

Mike took the list of addresses and went out onto the street. His hands were shaking with anger and humiliation.

He got into his car and just sat there for a while, clutching the steering wheel. Tyrone’s face was before his eyes. Aisha’s words echoed in his head, and Chanel’s cold gaze haunted him.

In the evening, after finishing his shift, Mike drove to a small park near his house.

He parked and got out, walking to a bench by the pond. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The park was almost empty. Only a couple of elderly people were walking in the distance.

Mike sat down on the bench and covered his face with his hands. Everything he had been holding back all day, all month, all these years, it all came pouring out.

He cried quietly, trying not to be heard. The tears were bitter, full of helplessness and despair. He felt cornered, crushed by a life that left him no choice.

Mike cried until it was completely dark. Then he wiped his face with his sleeve, got up, and walked to his car.

Chanel was waiting for him at home, but he knew there would be no warmth there. Only cold silence and unspoken contempt.

Three days had passed since that evening in the park, and Mike decided to talk. He could no longer live in this cold silence. Could no longer come home every evening and feel like a stranger in his own apartment. Something had to change. At least he had to try.

That Saturday, Mike didn’t go to work. He waited for Chanel to wake up, made breakfast—eggs and bacon, toast, fresh coffee. He set the table and arranged the plates.

When Chanel came out of the bedroom in her bathrobe, she looked at the set table in surprise.

“What’s this?” she asked cautiously.

“Breakfast.” Mike tried to smile. “I thought we needed to talk, have a proper conversation.”

Chanel sat down at the table but didn’t touch the food. Mike sat across from her, folding his arms in front of him.

“Chanel, I know things have been bad between us lately. I know you’re disappointed in me, that you’re tired of our money problems, and I understand you. I really do.”

She was silent, staring at him with a cold gaze.

“But I want you to know that I love you, and I’m ready to change everything. I’ll look for another job, something more stable. I can work more, take on extra shifts. We can fix everything if you give me another chance.”

Chanel slowly poured herself some coffee, took a sip, and put the cup on the table.

“Mike, how many times have we had this conversation? How many times have you promised that everything will change?”

“But this time, I’m serious.”

“This time you’re serious,” she interrupted, her voice tinged with weariness. “You’re always serious, but nothing changes. I’m tired, Mike. I’m tired of living paycheck to paycheck. Tired of counting every dollar. Tired of denying myself everything. I’m 31 years old and I want to live, not just survive.”

“I understand. I promise I’ll find something better. I’ve already started looking for jobs in warehouses, in delivery.”

“When?” Chanel asked sharply. “When will you find something? In a month? In two? In a year? And then it will turn out that they don’t pay much there either and we’ll be back in the same situation.”

Mike felt his insides tighten. He saw not anger in her eyes, but indifference, and that was worse.

“Give me time. A few months, I’ll fix everything.”

Chanel leaned back in her chair and looked him straight in the eye.

“Okay. You have three months. If nothing changes in three months, if you don’t find a normal job with a normal salary, I’m leaving. I’m serious, Mike. I can’t live like this anymore. I need stability. I need a future. And if you can’t give me that, I’ll find someone who can.”

Her words hit him like a slap in the face.

Mike wanted to say something, to argue, but there was a lump in his throat. He just nodded.

“Three months,” he repeated quietly.

Chanel got up from the table without touching her breakfast and went back to the bedroom.

Mike remained seated alone, staring at his cooling food.

Three months. Ninety days to change his whole life, find a better job, start earning enough money. It seemed impossible to him.

The following weeks turned into a marathon.

Mike worked 14, sometimes 16 hours a day. He took every order he could get, drove without breaks, and ate in his car. At the same time, he sent out résumés to dozens of job openings: warehouse worker, truck driver, logistics company employee.

But either he got no response or he got rejected. Everywhere he applied, they required experience, education, and references. He had none of those things.

Money continued to slip through his fingers like water. Rent, utilities, gas, food—everything ate away at his earnings.

Mike saved every dollar he could, but his savings grew slowly. In three weeks, he had saved $300, which he hid in a sock in the far corner of his closet.

It was ridiculously little, not even enough to impress Chanel.

Things at home got even colder. Chanel barely talked to him. They slept in the same bed, but it was like there was an invisible wall between them.

Sometimes Mike would wake up at night and look at her sleeping face, trying to remember when it all went wrong.

They had met six years ago at a party thrown by mutual friends. Back then, Chanel laughed at his jokes. They walked until dawn, made plans. She believed in him.

Now there was only disappointment in her eyes.

One evening, it was a Tuesday, Mike got an order in one of the wealthy neighborhoods in north Detroit.

A large house with a well‑kept lawn, two stories high with columns at the entrance. Mike had only seen houses like this in movies or when delivering orders. People with money, careers, and a future lived here.

He parked by the road, took the bag of food, and climbed the wide steps to the door.

He rang the doorbell. No one answered. Mike waited a minute and rang again. Silence.

He checked the app. The customer had left a note:

“If no one is home, leave the order in the hallway. The door is open.”

Mike pushed the heavy oak door and it gave way.

The hallway was spacious with marble floors and high ceilings. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung on the wall, and next to it was a table with a vase of fresh flowers. It smelled of expensive air freshener.

Mike put the bag of food on the table, took a photo of it to confirm delivery, and was about to leave when he noticed a wallet.

It was lying on the edge of the same table as if someone had forgotten it there when leaving the house. It was a brown leather wallet, clearly expensive.

Mike froze. His heart began to beat faster. He looked around. There was still no one in the house. Silence.

His hand reached for the wallet on its own. He picked it up and opened it.

Inside were credit cards, a driver’s license in the name of David Morris, and a thick wad of bills.

Mike quickly counted it.

$3,000 in cash.

Three thousand dollars. That was more than he earned in a month. It would be enough for a deposit on a better apartment, for a gift for Chanel, to show her that he was capable of more.

Mike stood there holding the wallet in his hands, and a war was raging inside him.

It was wrong. It was theft.

But another part of him didn’t care about what was right. He needed the money. He needed it desperately.

He looked back once more. The house was silent.

Mike took out the wad of bills, put it in his jacket pocket, and put the wallet back on the table. His hands were shaking.

He quickly left the house, closed the door behind him, and almost ran down to his car.

Once behind the wheel, Mike sat motionless for a long time. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

There was $3,000 in his pocket. Someone else’s money. Stolen money.

He was so ashamed that he wanted to sink through the ground.

But what could he do? Go back and put it back. Then what? Go home to his wife who had already almost packed her things, continue working himself to exhaustion for pennies.

Mike started the car and drove away.

For the rest of his shift, he worked in a daze, mechanically filling orders, smiling at customers, thanking them for their tips. But his thoughts kept returning to the money in his pocket.

He had stolen. He had become a thief. And worst of all, he felt not only shame, but also a strange sense of relief.

Finally, he had money. Finally, he could change something.

After his shift, Mike stopped by a flower shop. He bought a large bouquet of red roses, 25 of them. It cost him $50, but now he could afford it.

He imagined coming home, handing Chanel the flowers and money, telling her that he had a chance, that everything would be okay. Maybe she would smile. Maybe, for the first time in many months, she would look at him with warmth.

Mike climbed the stairs to his apartment, holding the bouquet in his hands. His key trembled in the lock as he opened the door.

He entered and immediately realized that something was wrong.

There was a suitcase on the sofa in the living room, the same blue suitcase that Chanel had bought two years ago for a trip to visit her parents.

Chanel came out of the bedroom with a bag in her hand. She was dressed, wearing makeup, ready to leave.

When she saw Mike, she stopped.

“Chanel—” Mike stepped toward her, holding out the flowers. “Wait, please. I want to tell you something. Look, I bought you flowers and I have money. I found a way.”

“Mike, stop.” Her voice was firm and cold. She didn’t even look at the bouquet. “I don’t care.”

“But I have $3,000.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “See, I can change everything. We can start over.”

Chanel looked at the money, then at his face. There was no joy in her eyes, only fatigue and contempt.

“Where did you get $3,000, Mike? Did you steal it?”

He froze, the words stuck in his throat.

“I… I found a way to make money.”

“Don’t lie to me.” She shook her head. “I can see it in your face. You stole it.”

“Chanel, listen—”

She moved closer and knocked the bouquet out of his hands. The roses fell to the floor, scattering red petals across the linoleum.

“I’m leaving, Mike. I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of living with a man who can’t even earn money. Honestly, I’m tired of this life. This apartment. You. I’m 31 years old, and I don’t want to waste another day on a man who will never achieve anything.”

“Don’t go,” Mike’s voice broke. “Please don’t go. I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

“Your promises are worthless,” she said, picking up her suitcase and heading for the door. “I’ve already rented an apartment. I’ll pick up my things later. Don’t call me. Don’t write to me. I want a divorce.”

The door slammed shut.

Mike stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the closed door, at the roses scattered on the floor, at the money in his hand.

$3,000. Stolen money that had changed nothing.

His legs gave way, and he sank to the sofa, dropping the bills on the floor.

He sat motionless, not crying, just staring into space.

Twenty or thirty minutes passed. Mike didn’t know. Time had lost its meaning.

There was a knock at the door. He didn’t answer.

There was another knock, more insistent.

“Mike, it’s me, Colin. Open up.”

Mike struggled to his feet and opened the door.

Colin was standing on the threshold in his work clothes, apparently just back from the factory.

“I saw Chanel leaving with a suitcase,” Colin said quietly. “She’s gone.”

Mike nodded, unable to speak.

“Can I come in?”

Mike stepped aside and Colin entered, closing the door behind him. He saw the roses on the floor and the money scattered next to the sofa and understood everything without words.

“Sit down.” Colin led Mike to the sofa and he obediently sat down.

“You want a drink?”

“No.” Mike shook his head.

Colin sat down next to him. They were silent for a while.

“I lost everything,” Mike finally said hoarsely. “I tried. I really tried, but it wasn’t enough. I even stole this money thinking it would help, but nothing helped.”

“You stole the money?” Colin looked at the bills on the floor.

“Yes. I was delivering an order to a rich house and there was a wallet there. Three thousand dollars. I took it. I’m a thief, Colin. I’m a thief and a failure.”

Colin put his hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not a failure. You just found yourself in a difficult situation. Many people break under that kind of pressure.”

“But I stole. I broke the law.”

“You were desperate,” Colin said calmly. “Look, I’m not saying it’s right. But I understand why you did it. Sometimes life corners us and we do things we didn’t expect ourselves to do.”

Mike covered his face with his hands. He wasn’t crying, but inside he felt empty. It was as if something important that had kept him going all these years had finally broken.

“What am I going to do now?”

“You’ll get through this,” Colin said firmly. “I know it feels like the end of the world right now, but you’re stronger than you think. Give yourself time. Deal with the divorce. Keep working and everything will work out. Not all women are like Chanel. You’ll find someone who appreciates you not for your money, but for who you are.”

Mike wanted to believe those words, but they seemed empty. He just nodded.

Colin sat with him for another hour, helped him gather the roses and money, and made tea. When he left, Mike thanked him.

Left alone, Mike lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. The apartment was quiet and empty. Chanel was gone, and it seemed that with her, the last hope that his life would ever change had gone, too.

Two weeks passed in a strange stupor. Mike worked, ate, slept, but it was as if it wasn’t happening to him.

The apartment seemed bigger without Chanel, the emptiness eating into the walls.

He didn’t pick up the roses from the floor for the first three days. They lay there wilted and blackened, a reminder of that evening. Then Colin came to check on him and silently threw them in the trash.

The lawyer scheduled an appointment for Thursday, October 21st at 2 p.m.

The office was located in the city center in a low gray building. Mike arrived 15 minutes early, parked, and sat in his car staring out the window.

He didn’t want to go in. Signing these papers would make everything final, irreversible. There was no longer any hope that Chanel would change her mind, come back, and say it was all a mistake.

When he went up to the third floor and entered the reception area, Chanel was already there.

She was sitting on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. She was wearing a strict black dress. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she had light makeup on her face. She looked calm and collected, as if she had come to a regular business meeting, not a divorce.

When she saw Mike, she looked up, nodded, and buried her nose in the magazine again.

He sat down in the chair opposite her, his hands on his knees. They didn’t exchange a word.

The secretary behind the desk was typing something on the computer, and the phone on the table rang periodically. Time dragged on painfully.

The lawyer, a short man in his 50s with thinning gray hair and a tired face, called them in at exactly 2:00.

They went into a small office with a wooden desk covered with folders. The lawyer pointed to the chairs opposite him.

“So,” he opened a folder and took out several sheets of paper. “We have here a standard procedure for divorce without children and jointly acquired property. It’s all quite simple. Do you both agree to the divorce?”

“Yes,” said Chanel.

“Yes,” echoed Mike.

“Excellent. No claims against each other. No one is requesting alimony or division of property?”

“No,” Chanel replied again. Her voice was even and business‑like.

“Good. Then you just need to sign here, here, and here.”

The lawyer handed the documents to Chanel first. She took the pen and quickly, without hesitation, signed all the required places.

Then the documents were passed to Mike. He looked at the lines of text, at the empty spaces for his signature. His hand trembled as he wrote his name. Each letter was difficult to write, as if he were signing not papers, but his own death warrant.

“Done,” said the lawyer, gathering the sheets. “The documents will be filed with the court, and in 30 days, the divorce will be final. Any questions?”

Chanel shook her head and stood up.

Mike also got up, feeling heavy in his legs.

They left the office one after the other.

In the hallway, Chanel stopped and turned to him.

“Good luck, Mike,” she said, and there was neither anger nor regret in her voice, just empty politeness.

He wanted to say something in response, but she had already turned and walked toward the stairs. Her heels clicked on the tile floor as she walked away.

Mike stood watching her until she disappeared around the corner. Then he slowly walked downstairs, went outside, and got into his car.

He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t sit in that empty apartment and think about what had just happened. So he turned on the app and went to work.

Work helped him not to think. Work filled his time and emptiness.

Tyrone’s office was full of couriers when Mike arrived to pick up his orders.

Tyrone was standing by the wall, yelling at a young guy who had apparently messed up the address.

“Can’t you read?” Tyrone yelled. “Third Street, not 13th. Because of people like you, I’m losing customers.”

The guy shuffled his feet, staring at the floor.

Mike walked past him to the table where the order slips were lying. Tyrone noticed him and switched targets.

“Oh, look who’s here. Our hero.” His voice was mocking. “How’s it going, Colwell? Has your wife come back yet? Or is she still wondering if you’re worth her time?”

Several delivery guys laughed.

Mike didn’t even turn his head. He picked up his order list and headed for the door.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Tyrone shouted. “Don’t you dare ignore me.”

Mike stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“You’re a nobody, Colwell. You always have been and always will be. Even your own wife realized that. I’m surprised she put up with you for so many years.”

Mike slowly turned around.

Tyrone stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face.

In the past, words like that would have made Mike feel ashamed, angry, desperate to justify himself. Now he felt nothing, only emptiness.

“I’m going to work,” Mike said in an even voice and walked out.

There was laughter behind him, but Mike didn’t turn around.

He got in his car, started the engine, and drove off.

The first few orders passed in a blur. He delivered the food, thanked the customers, took the tips, but didn’t remember their faces or what he said.

Everything happened automatically, as if he were a robot programmed to carry out simple commands.

It was already past 7 in the evening when the last order came in.

A large family pizza delivered to an address in the northern district, the same district where there were beautiful houses, well‑kept lawns, and people with money.

Mike picked up the hot box from the pizzeria and drove off.

The house turned out to be two stories tall with a wide porch and tall windows. A driveway led to the garage and neatly trimmed bushes grew in front of the house.

The lights were on on the first and second floors.

Mike parked, took the pizza, and climbed the steps. He rang the doorbell and almost immediately he heard a woman’s laughter from inside.

The voice sounded familiar, but Mike didn’t think much of it.

The door was opened by a man in his 40s, tall, wearing expensive loungewear—silk pants and a shirt with an open collar. A watch glinted on his wrist, clearly worth more than Mike earned in six months.

“Oh, pizza. Great.” The man took the box. “How much do I owe you?”

“Twenty‑eight,” Mike replied.

The man reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and counted out the bills. He handed them to Mike.

“Come in, put it on the table,” he said casually, turning and heading back into the house.

Mike followed him in, intending to quickly put the money and check on the counter at the entrance, when suddenly his gaze fell on a suitcase in the corner of the hallway.

A blue suitcase with scuffed corners and an airline tag. The very same suitcase that Chanel had taken away two weeks ago.

Mike’s heart skipped a beat. He froze, staring at the suitcase.

Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a similar suitcase. But no—he remembered that scratch on the side, that tag.

Then laughter came from the upper floor again. A woman’s laughter, clear and happy.

Chanel’s voice. Mike would recognize it anywhere.

“Reggie, are you lost with the pizza?” she called, laughing.

Mike’s legs carried him to the stairs. He climbed slowly, holding on to the railing. Each step echoed in his temples.

On the second floor was a wide hallway with several doors. One of them at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar, light spilling out from behind it.

Mike approached and peered inside.

The bedroom was large with a huge bed in the middle. Two people were sitting on the bed under a silk blanket.

Chanel and the man who had opened the door.

They were laughing and drinking wine from glasses. Chanel was wearing a light silk robe. Her hair was loose and her face was flushed and happy.

The man had his arm around her shoulders.

Time stood still.

Mike stood in the doorway, unable to move.

Chanel was the first to notice him. Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she laughed sharply, almost hysterically.

“Mike.” She leaned back on the pillows, covering her mouth with her hand. “My God, it’s Mike.”

The man, Reginald, turned and looked at Mike with curiosity and slight irritation.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That’s my ex‑husband.” Chanel was still laughing. “The delivery guy. He’s delivering food.”

Reginald smirked.

He got out of bed, walked over to the nightstand, and took out a few bills.

He walked over to Mike and threw the money at his feet.

“Here, take your tip, courier,” he said dismissively. “And get out of here. We’re busy.”

Mike looked at the money at his feet, then looked up at Chanel.

She was no longer laughing, but there was a cold smirk on her face.

“Did you really think I would mourn alone?” Her voice was full of contempt. “Mike, I’ve been seeing Reginald for over a year. A whole year while you played the loser and earned your pathetic pennies. He gives me what you could never give me. Stability. Comfort. A future. Did you really think I would sit around and wait for you to finally become a man?”

Her words hit Mike like blows.

A year. She had been cheating on him for a year.

All this time, while he was working himself to exhaustion, trying to please her, saving every dollar, she was with another man.

All her reproaches, all her disappointment, all the cold evenings—it was all a lie. She had decided to leave long ago. She was just waiting for the right moment.

“Get out,” Reginald said, taking a step forward. “The pizza’s delivered. The money’s paid. Get out.”

Something inside Mike broke.

Not loudly, not with a crash. Quietly, almost silently.

It was as if the last thread that kept him within the bounds of the normal civilized world had snapped.

He turned and slowly descended the stairs. His steps were heavy, mechanical.

There was a strange silence in his head.

On the first floor, he went into the kitchen.

It was a large modern kitchen with marble countertops and shiny appliances. There was a pizza box on the table and an open bottle of wine next to it.

Knives hung on a magnetic strip by the stove. A whole set—from small vegetable knives to large chef’s knives.

Mike took a knife from the strip, a long one with a wide blade. It felt nice and comfortable in his hand. He gripped the handle and turned toward the stairs.

It took him a few seconds to climb the stairs.

In the bedroom, Chanel and Reginald were still sitting on the bed, now kissing. They didn’t even hear him come in.

Mike moved closer.

Reginald was the first to sense the movement and turned around. His eyes widened when he saw the knife.

What happened next remained in Mike’s memory like blurred frames of a movie. Screams. Attempts to escape.

Reginald tried to defend himself, grabbing his arms, but Mike was stronger, faster, and his rage gave him strength.

Chanel tried to reach the door, but didn’t make it in time.

It was over quickly. Maybe three minutes, maybe five. Mike didn’t know. Time had lost all meaning.

When everything quieted down, Mike stood in the middle of the bedroom, breathing heavily.

The knife fell from his hand and hit the carpet with a dull thud.

There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the bed.

Mike looked at his hands. They were covered in red, shining under the bedroom light like something that didn’t quite belong to him.

Two lifeless bodies with stab wounds lay on the floor.

He had to do something.

His thoughts were slow and sluggish, but his instinct for self‑preservation kicked in.

Mike took off his jacket and threw it on the floor. He found a towel in the bathroom and wiped his hands and face. Then he returned to the bedroom.

He carried Reginald’s body down the stairs first. It was heavy and awkward.

He found the door to the basement. It was in the kitchen behind a cupboard. He moved the cabinet, opened the narrow door, and descended the wooden steps into the darkness, feeling along the wall until he found the switch.

The basement light flickered on, revealing old boxes, tools, and useless junk.

Mike left the body in the corner, covering it with a tarp.

He went back upstairs for Chanel.

She was lighter. He carried her in his arms, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought flashed through his mind: this was how he had carried her on the first day after their wedding, across the threshold of their first apartment.

Back then, she had laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

When both bodies were in the basement, Mike closed the door and pushed the wardrobe back into place.

He went upstairs to the bedroom. He gathered all the clothes with stains, his jacket, and the knife.

He found a garbage bag in the kitchen and stuffed everything into it.

Then he tried to wipe the marks off the floor and bed, but realized it was useless. There were too many stains.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter now.

Mike left the house carrying the bag. He threw it in the trunk of his car.

He got behind the wheel and just sat there for a few minutes, staring into space.

Then he started the engine and drove away.

He still had two orders left for the evening.

Mike picked them up and delivered them, smiling at the customers and wishing them a good meal.

No one noticed anything strange. Why would they? He was just a delivery guy bringing food.

At 10:00 in the evening, his shift ended.

Mike drove to the outskirts of the city to an old industrial zone that had been abandoned for many years.

He found an empty container and threw the bag of things into it.

Then he drove home.

The apartment greeted him with darkness and silence.

Mike turned on the light, went to the bathroom, undressed, and got in the shower. The hot water washed the remaining traces from his skin, flowing in thin reddish streams into the drain.

He stood under the jets for a long time until the water became scalding.

After drying himself, he put on clean clothes, went to the bedroom, and lay down on the bed.

He stared at the ceiling. His mind was empty. No remorse, no fear, no horror at what he had done. Just emptiness.

On the fridge, the US flag magnet still held up the past‑due bill, unmoved by anything that had happened.

Mike closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.

No dreams, no nightmares.